The Structure of Insanity
by Jennyyu73
Summary: Molly Hooper is starting university with great hopes, and happens to stumble upon an unemotional genius by the name of Sherlock Holmes whom she shares several classes with. Their first meetup wasn't too pleasant, but he manages to win her over later on, but trouble wasn't too far behind. A murder. Crazy family members. This includes Sherlolly.
1. Meeting of the Minds

"Shoulders up, head back, Molly," I chided myself, trying my best to not look like a scared wimp on her first day of university. Which, in fact, is the truth.

Glancing at my schedule for the third time in five minutes, I concluded that yes, my first class of the day is still biology in the science wing. Making my way through a cloud of people, the scope of the situation suddenly hit me like a blow - I'm actually at university! Alone, without knowing anyone except my roommate! My gosh. Ditching class suddenly seem like such an appealing idea.

After a few deep breaths, I managed to calm myself down enough to start walking towards the direction of what I think is the science wing. Unfortunately, about five hundred other people also had the same idea as I did, and I was like a tadpole swimming against the current. A guy suddenly bumped into me, which is inevitable, I suppose, in a place like this, but he said nothing more than "watch it," and looked at me with an accusing look with those eyes.

Those eyes were almost indescribable. Like the color of a clear summer sky with a dash of sparkling cider, but they also had a calculating aura behind the surface.

Shaking myself loose of an uncomfortable feeling, I realized that he had walked off already without any form of an apology.

"Jerk," I muttered under my breath, hopes diminishing of meeting nice people.

"Come on!" I heard someone in the distance shout, "We're going to be late for creative writing!"

Creative writing?! I thought this was the science wing!

"Dammit!" I shouted, upon the realization that I had stumbled into the wrong building, causing several glances to be casted my way. Ignoring them, I began to run out and into the neighboring, the correct, building.

I walked into class two minutes late, right in the middle of a sentence the professor was speaking. I flushed pink.

"I- I'm sorry. I got lost."

"Take a seat, Miss...?"

"-Hooper," I answered and took the first empty seat I saw, which was in the third row, cheeks still pink.

"As I was explaining before Miss Hooper bursted in, these will be your seats for the first semester, since you all got to choose your own," Mr. Allenston, as I learned from the chalkboard, continued talking.

I frowned at the notion, as for the fact I grabbed the first chair I saw. I didn't even know who was in the seat beside me at the lab table. Looking beside to see exactly whom I happened upon, I realized the person was studying me with those clear-sky-cider eyes as the guy I bumped into. Actually... hold on, it is him! Oh, great, out of everyone in the entire school, I chanced upon the enigmatic asshole. Accidentally meeting his eyes, I quickly looked away.

Maybe I should try to turn this around, make a better impression, seeing as we are going to be partners for a semester. I turned to face him again, "Hi, I'm Molly," I whispered in a low voice, trying not to be overheard by the Professor.

"I know," he replied curtly.

"What your name? Not to pry or anything, you now, seeing that we're gonna be partners for a while," I said, as his eyes flicked up to meet mine again.

"Going to," he corrected.

"What?"

"Not 'gonna', it's 'going to'. And I know enough about you, there's no need for this exchange."

"What are you talking about? I don't even know your name and you think you have my life laid out?" Who does this person think he is?!

"Sherlock Holmes is the name, and the power of deduction and observation is often useful at times like these when conversation is not needed to know about the person in perspective." He turned back to face the professor to feign interest but continued speaking quietly, "I know that you are nervous about the first day of university from the slight tremor in your left index finger and your cautious body language. You had a powdered doughnut for breakfast. You fixed yourself up especially careful to look extra decent today, but you're clearly not experienced with applying makeup, but still attempted to. You also do not like to style your hair or manage much of it, seeing from the split-ends. You probably took some form of ballet when you were younger, seeing from your posture and feet positioning. Need I go on?"

"I - how in the world?!"

"Miss Hooper! Is there something you'd like to share with the class?" Mr. Allenston interrupted, striding up the aisle.

"She was merely instructing me to pay attention, Professor," Sherlock said, covering for me.

The professor took the excuse suspiciously, but let the whole endeavour go and continued lecturing.

Did Sherlock Holmes just save my skin?

**Hey guys, thanks for cracking this open and reading it. :D This is my first Sherlock fanfic, so it might be a little bit out of character. Also, I am not in university, so all the class stuff and curriculum are made up. Critiques and comments are welcome! I think I'm going to go with a little more characterization before introducing the case and murder. **


	2. Trust Issues

"Thanks, for back there," I said to Sherlock after the end of class.

His mouth twitched at the attempt at a little smile as he walked off, all mysterious with his high cheekbones and nose turned up into the air.

Still confused about the situation, I strolled back to my dorm where my roommate was busily tapping away on Facebook and scrolling through her Tumblr dashboard.

"Hey, Molly," she greeted. "How was... biology, is it? Met any cute guys?"

"Hi, Allie. And, um, no?" I intoned. Should I say yes? I feel like that would be a better conversation-starter, but I haven't met anybody but Sherlock, and he is, from what I've seen today, an annoying prick aside from the little incident at the end. But then again...

"You sound unsure," Allie swiveled her chair and looked at me. She winked. "Are you sure?"

"Yes. I am." I snapped.

Allie was a bit taken aback by my tone, and I apologized profusely, blaming it on my hunger. It was nearly noon.

"There are some biscuits, I think, in the pantry," Allie gestured to it at the corner of our small dorm room.

"You know what? I think I'll actually go down to that café down the street. You know, as a treat for making it through my first class without causing too many incidents," I told her. Biscuits weren't going to cut it.

"Sure. Suit yourself." Allie shrugged. "Can you get me some scones to go? Thanks." She went back to her computer and started tapping away.

I grabbed a few bills and a book and exited the dorms building. It was surprisingly busy outside, people milling around, holding hands, or eyes glued to the electronic devices.

The walk to the café took about five minutes, and the place was packed.

"What would you like, honey?" The lady at the counter asked.

"A sandwich, and a cup of coffee. Black, two sugars. Oh, and three scones to go, please."

She quickly assembled my ordered me the sandwich, coffee, and scones wrapped up. I gave her a thanks, paid, and searched for an available seat. My eyes zoomed onto a window table which had just been emptied by two girls. Sitting down, I began nibbling at my food and brought out the book and started reading.

"May I sit here?" A hypnotic voice shook me free of the universe inside the book. Sherlock.

"Um, sure. Of course. If you want. This is a public facility, right? So, yeah, sure." I answered, quite awkwardly, completely taken by surprise.

He sat down, put his palms together, and started watching the people in the café. Just watching. Nothing else.

"What are you doing? It's kind of... creepy."

His head swiveled towards my face, eyes examining my expression. I think I'm hyperventilating. Why am I hyperventilating? He's nothing more than a strange, extremely smart, sociopath. Is my heartbeat always this loud?

"I'm observing," he answered.

"Observing?'

"Yes. See that couple over there?" He pointed. "The guy is most likely going to break up with the girl. His arms are crossed, separating them, and his face sports a very sour look. Clearly, something is going to go down. You see that girl over there? Dressed in blue?" He clasped his hands together and leaned closer across the table. "She is debating whether or not to eat the whole muffin, which, of course, shows she wishes to be thinner. And that boy over there -"

"Yes, yes, I know you like to show off how smart you are and whatnot, but why?" I cut him off.

He blinked a few times, "It's useful. Or rather, it will be useful, taking into consideration the career path I've chosen."

"Which is?" I prompted.

"Consulting detective. The only one in the world."

"And lemme guess," I ventured. "This is helping you notice patterns or something you can deduce better. How'd I do?"

"Not bad. But fortunately, most people are simple to read. No practice required," he stood up. "Don't want to be late for psychology."

"Really? I also happen to be taking that. Well, actually, my parents wanted me to take that, but let me get my stuff. I'm leaving, too."

"I know my way around," he stated. "No need to go to class together when we hardly know each other."

Wait, was he joking? After the whole deducing episode during class? "That - wasn't what I was suggesting," I stuttered, backtracking. "I've got better things to do than conversing with an arrogant smarty pants who think he's better than everyone else."

"I think you're trying to hide something," his face slipped into that look that shows he's deducing his next victim.

"Stop that," I exclaimed. His deductions aren't wanted now. Composing my face into an expression of indifference, I quickly walked away with a murmur of having to give the scones to Allie.

Maybe I should just keep away from Sherlock Holmes, I told myself. He smells like trouble. He seems like one of those people that trouble follows at their wake. But then again, my life has never really been exciting before all this, and he seems like he would be very exciting indeed. I should just treat him now on purely as... as...

There are no words to describe this. Friends? No way. Enemies? Not quite. Acquaintances? A tad bit more than that. I groaned in frustration as I re-entered my dorm and dropped the scones off with Allie.

Walking to class, I was deep in thought.

"In order to establish a collaborative relationship with your peers and each other, what's needed is mutual trust. There are many levels of it, physically trusting another, emotionally trusting them, and many levels deeper. Today, we are going to explore one of the basic levels of trust with a simple exercise that I'm sure most of you have all heard of. You will be paired up with a partner, and will have to fall back, trusting the other to catch you," Miss Mace, the teacher, announced.

There were a few grumbles, but most students seem to comply with it. Until Sherlock spoke up.

"This is absurd and has no correlation whatsoever with the social dynamics and collaboration of this class," he snapped. "And I, myself, have no urge to be lying on the ground with a cracked skull, bleeding, because someone's hands accidentally slipped."

"Mr. Holmes," Miss Mace stood up. "If you seem to have so vast a knowledge of this subject, why don't you come up and instruct this class yourself? Or rather, walk out of here right now. Certainly, it seems, according to yourself, there wouldn't be much love lost."

I could tell Sherlock was going to make a smart-alecky response and possibly emotionally confuse and bash her, so I hissed his name, "Sherlock!"

He glanced back, saw my warning look, and surprisingly sat back down, but with a defiant expression, nonetheless.

The teacher then tossed a look at Sherlock and gave us all permission to get started. Most hanged around awkwardly, as for the fact that they didn't know many people, but some, having been accepted to the same university as their friends, quickly found a partner.

I scanned the room and found no familiar faces, when a small, sing-songy voice announced, "Molly Hooper, right? I'm Maddy, from your biology class. Want to be partners?"

"Oh, sure. Yeah, of course," I answered, a bit ashamed that I didn't recognize her.

While those around us were having trouble falling back without catching themselves (and Sherlock not participating at all), Maddy closed her eyes, crossed her arms into a mummy position, and fell back with no hesitation. Surprised at her straight-forwardness and trust, I caught her at the last second and she stood up with a smile, "now, your turn."

I breathed in one time and then let myself drop back. Maddy's small hands caught me and hoisted me back up.

Because we were done with the exercise, we started chatting and comparing schedules, and just general gossiping.

"The only class we have together is this and biology with Allenston," she noted.

I grimaced at the mention of the name.

"Yeah," she laughed, noticing my reaction. "He's not one of the incentives of going to this school. Rumours say that he has a crazy life outside of this job. Something about an illegitimate son in an insane asylum and cooking meth down in his basement and gambling away most of his money."

"You're not serious, are you? He doesn't seem like that type of person. Too uptight and whatnot."

She shrugged, "That's what my boyfriend had said. He had him last year for biology. And uptight? Not as uptight as that guy before who was being all smart with Miss Mace. What was his name?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Yeah, something like that."

Just then, the teacher called us back and we didn't get to chat much more on the subject.

**Thanks for reading! And there is a clue about the case that's going to come soon in this chapter. More to come soon. Comments are critiques are very welcomed. :)**


	3. Musician Problems

The next few days were considerably better than the first. Maddy and I have become close friends and there weren't many more meetings with Sherlock unless absolutely necessary.

Then came orchestra class on Thursday. My mother has always encouraged me to go into the arts. She piled upon me voice lessons, ballet training (as Sherlock had so graciously pointed out earlier), and violin classes. I had begged her to quit several of them, and after finally realizing she can't direct my entire life, she complied under one condition - that I just keep doing one of them, because it might help me later on in life for school applications and such. I had chosen to keep playing the violin because that was the only one I excelled at. Well, maybe not so far as excel as more leaning towards pretty decent.

Walking into the orchestra practice room, I noticed two things. One, Allie plays the viola, which means I'll have a companion in the class and I won't be surrounded by total strangers, and two, Sherlock was sitting in the first chair violin section (meant for the concertmaster) and practicing a complex melody from memory.

I got out my instrument and bow from the case, put the shoulder rest on it, and walked up to hi curiously, "What song is that? One of Bach's? Mozart?"

"I composed it myself," he answered and abruptly ceased his playing.

"You compose?" How many things can one person be good at?

"When I'm bored or need to think," he shrugged.

"That's... quite impressive."

"Yes, quite," he said, making no attempt to be modest.

Well, there isn't much to respond to that. The teacher saved us from things becoming increasingly awkward by telling us all to sit our butts down and shut up, expect in a more polite manner, of course. He then passed out a sheet that told us the outlines of this class and concert dates. An itinerary.

"Seats, especially the first stand for the sections, will need to be auditioned for, as do solos," Mr. Vince explained.

"Isn't this a bit of an overkill?" Sherlock noted looking at all the dates as I inwardly groaned. He's doing his aggravation scheme again. "Three and a half months for the preparation of one concert?"

"We must be considerate of all individuals in this class. Besides, you might be surprised at how much time it takes to drive a piece to perfection. It takes a lot into consideration - bowing, tempo, dynamics, and most of all, musicality," the teacher replied, a bit irritated but trying to stay patient.

"Three weeks."

"What?"

"Three weeks," Sherlock explained. "It's the longest it ever took for me to 'drive a piece to perfection'. And that was when I was only fourteen. Now, it's considerably less."

I get tell Mr. Vince was getting frustrated - very frustrated - at Sherlock, as he tended to have that effect on most individuals.

So the teacher threw what he probably thought was a curveball at Sherlock, "If you really think you are as great as you say, Mr. -" he looked down at the attendance sheet "- Holmes, then don't mind me presenting to you a challenge. You will get the duty of performing a most extremely difficult solo piece for the concert. Four months, and the difficulty of the music will be no less than someone on the levels of, say, Itzhak Perlman or Joshua Bell."

Unfazed, Sherlock responded cockily, "Taking into perspective of what you said earlier about being 'considerate of all individuals in this class', don't you think it's a bit unfair to blindly hand me a solo? Although I have to admit that I deserve one, a duet or a trio would more accurately showcase the talent of this school. Any takers?" His eyes flickered around the room and landed on me. "Molly? How about you?"

I opened my mouth to protest, but he turned away before I could with a, "Good, then it's decided."

"What was that?" I confronted Sherlock after class ended. "What the hell was that?!"

"No need to overreact, Miss Hooper," he said cooly.

"I'm not overreacting! WHAT WAS THAT?" I shouted.

"Retaliation," he answered, not bothering to elaborate.

"For what?" I asked, cooling down a bit from the outburst.

"For doubting my abilities. For attempting to berate me. Whichever one works for you," he slipped on a trenchcoat and started walking off.

"Wait!" I called. "You still haven't told me what piece we're playing. You might not need practice, oh the Great Sherlock Holmes, but I sure do."

"I'll bring it to your dorms tonight," he answered, not slowing down.

"You don't know where I live!"

"The student directory is a beautiful thing, Molly."

Still a bit flustered by this whole situation, I stood there for a little while, just watching his briskly walking away with that egotistical stride of his. He seems like an island full of mysteries that has its own defense to shield off anyone who try to come close.

"Allie! Help me clean up!" I yelled. She was lying down on the bottom bunk, eating a bag of pretzels, texting someone.

She rolled her eyes, "When have you cared how the room looks? So what if Sherlock's coming? We don't clean up for when my boyfriend comes over."

"Well, I don't want Sherlock to think we're a bunch of slobs," I said, picking sheets of notebook paper off the floor. "Besides, your boyfriend already knows you're a lazy butt who doesn't like to clean."

She rolled her eyes again and half-heartedly picked up a textbook on the floor and set it on the desk.

There was a knock.

I opened the door.

Sherlock stood there carrying his violin and the music. We exchanged hellos.

He walked in, saw Allie and went, "Can you leave? Your presence here isn't going to help the productivity of this practice session."

She seemed offended at first, but then seemed to realize something, smirked at me, and walked out.

"Well, it appears she assumes we are most likely a 'secret couple' and probably going to engage in some form of sexual endeavours. Logical presumption, I suppose, but an untrue one at that," he said, taking out his instrument.

"Why'd you ask her to leave? That was quite rude. And you're influencing her to think this more... scandalous than it should."

"My reasoning stands," he said and gave me the second violin part to the duet. It was called Concerto No. 3, in D Minor for Two Violins by Bach.

I shuffled through the pages, "This isn't that difficult. I thought Mr. Vince said to choose something really hard."

He casted his eyes down and thought for a brief few seconds, then perked up, "If you want something harder, there's always Prokofiev, some of Bartok's compositions... play something for me."

I started the first measure for Twinkle Twinkle Little Star.

"No, no, something hard so I can get a sense of what level you're on and what music you're capable of."

I contemplated a while, then decided upon a song of choice. The theme to the film Schindler's List, played by Itzhak Perlman, actually, originally.

He was looking at me intently throughout the opening measures - my fingering, bowing, expression, even my stance.

"Can you stop that?"

"Stop what?" his concentration broke.

"The whole staring at me like I'm a crime scene suspect of some sort. It's disconcerting." I started again.

He interrupted with a wave of his hand, "you can stop now, I've got a good enough idea.

I sat down on the bunk bed where Allie was originally lying down and asked, "So, what'd you think?"

"I think I can compose something difficult for us that will work. I need a theme, though... something I can build off on - think, Sherlock, think!" He paced around the room almost frantically. "Got it! I need to write it down."He rushed out the door, brain whirling.

"Sherlock! You forgot your -"

He bursted back in, "Yes, violin, sorry about that, thank you, Molly."

Grabbing the case, he flew out the door as fast as he came back in, hair bouncing. Almost like jello.

**Again, guys, thanks for reading this. I actually play the violin, so I'm a bit educated in this area of expertise. The next chapter is the spot where things start getting pretty serious, so stay tuned. :)**


	4. Deathly Discoveries

Sherlock showed up early the next morning at the strike of six-thirty at my door, "Open up, Molly! It's me!"

"What, Sherlock?" I yanked open the door, hair still messy and grumpily commented, "Why are you here? It's six thirty in the morning! I'm still in my pyjamas."

He shoved several sheets of music towards me with a surprisingly alert look, yet he seems very tired, sporting crazed hair and a slight slouch.

"You stayed up all night to finish composing this?" I asked, incredulous, flipping through the pages.

He confirmed it with a quick nod.

I walked closer and went on my tippy toes to examine his eyes better. They were slightly bloodshot, "Are you high?"

"No!" He stumbled back, defensive. "Just some coffee. A little bit. Five cups, maybe?"

"Yeah, you are high, Sherlock," I told him.

"That's beside the point here," he glanced around the room until he spotted the closet. Striding forward, he grabbed the first shirt and pants he saw and chucked it in my direction. "Hurry up and get dressed. We need to start practicing."

I sighed exasperatedly, "Sherlock, it's six in the morning! We don't need to start practicing! It's too early for this, I still need some sleep before chemistry class."

"You said, and I quote, 'you might not need practice, oh the Great Sherlock Holmes, but I sure do,' so I suggest we get started."

"How in the world do you remember that? No, don't answer, I don't need a monologue. Look, Sherlock, you should get some sleep, too. Your eyes are a bit red, and the caffeine is going to wear off."

"I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine," he ruffled his hair, still jitteringly hyper. "I've gone on longer without sleep. This is nothing compared to that one day..."

I told him, "It seems like you chased away all my seratonin, so I guess I'd better get something to eat. Do you want anything?"

"Not hungry."

"Anything to drink? And not coffee. You've had enough of that."

He shrugged.

"Not helping. I'll just go make some tea, I guess," I swiveled him around by the shoulders and made him sit. "Stay," I commanded, and went on to get the sustenance.

When I came back, he was sound asleep, elbows propped up, supporting his head. He seemed so much less serious and snarky.

Trying not to wake him up and disturb the peacefulness, I set the tea down and absentmindedly scanned his duet composition. It was called "The Meeting of the Minds." Was it about us?! Before I can look further, I heard Allie yelp in the background.

"Why the hell is he here? Did you let him in?"

"He was delivering a music piece," I responded, and held up the papers in my hand as proof.

"What's wrong with him? He looks dead. Well, you know, except for the breathing part," Allie commented.

"It's something called sleep. Here, have his tea. I doubt he'd wake up anytime soon after pulling an all-nighter," I answered and then handed her the cup I made for Sherlock.

"How do I wake him?"

"Slap him," Allie suggested.

"I can't do that!"

"Fine, I'll slap him," Allie shrugged.

It was 7:40 AM, twenty minutes before Sherlock and my shared chemistry class begins, and he was still asleep after my several attempt to wake him up. I've tried pushing, poking, even pinching him in the arm, but he still stayed stubbornly unconscious.

"I'll try again," I said, gathering my breath and then let loose a great shout. "SHERLOCK HOLMES! CAN YOU HEAR ME?! WAKE UP OR I'LL BE FORCED TO LET ALLIE SLAP YOU AS A LAST RESORT!"

His eyes flew open as he fell back on his chair in shock. He tumbled to the ground while attempting to catch himself, but to no avail.

"Ouch, my elbow," he muttered and stood up, still somewhat groggy. Straightening his button-down shirt, he glanced at his watch. "Twenty minutes to chemistry. I can't believe I fell asleep. Just a waste of all that time. I'm going to go and get my books and laptop for class."

"I'm leaving for chem, too, let me grab my things, wait," I pounced on my backpack, grabbed its straps, and strung it on my shoulder. "I'm ready. Off to conquer the enemy that is the periodic table."

"What?" Sherlock seemed confuzzled. "Was that suppose to be a joke?"

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock."

"Not very funny."

"Oh you two, get a room," Allie rolled her eyes. She seems to be very good at doing that.

"We're already in a room, why should we get into another one?" Sherlock asked.

"And we are out," I quickly jumped in before Allie can add anything else. I threw her a I-will-kindly-murder-you-in-your-sleep look and pushed Sherlock out the door.

"What was that?" he implored.

"Nothing. What are you talking about? come on, walk faster, we're going to be late," I increased my pace without warranting another response from him.

"Do you honestly think I'm going to fall for that?" He tapped his temple with his index finger. "Please remember that I am a classified genius who also happens to be very skilled at deducing emotions from body language and speech tones."

Ignoring him, I noticed that there was an abnormal surge of number of students, all rushing towards the same place - the biology classroom. Everybody seemed anxious and I thought there were even a couple of police officers scattered through the crowd.

"Law enforcement. They seem very purposeful. Burglary? Robbery? No, something ordinary would never attract that much attention from the student body. It has to be a murder. Oh, today just got so much more interesting. This is brilliant!" He brightened significantly. "Come on, Molly!"

He started running, weaving throughout the crowd. Shouting, I followed his path and muttered some apologies to several people that he had bumped into, "Sherlock! Slow down! Sorry, sorry, Miss. HOLD UP!"

He halted to a stop at the entrance of the door. It was surrounded by students and officers at the front of the biology lab. The students were not allowed inside, and the door was manned by an officer by the name of Donovan. Turning to me, Sherlock said, "Molly, start crying, say that the victim is your uncle. They'll let us through that way."

"Why do we need to get through? Sherlock, this is ridiculous. Leave them to the crime scene," I frowned at him. "And besides, I can't cry on command like that. I don't... act."

"I'll do it, then," Turning back towards the door, he started to sob realistically towards Donovan. "Please, let me through! I just heard about this, my uncle's in there! Please!"

The mass of students parted around us, out of sympathy for Sherlock, but Donovan tried to block us. "Look, sir, I can't let you though. This is a crime scene and there are restrictions on who is allowed within the proximity. We can't let evidence we tampered with or disturbed."

"Please! He was the only family I had! You've got to let me through," Sherlock was buttering up his act with tears and an abused puppy expression.

Donovan hesitated for a moment, but ultimately decided to let him enter, just to have one last goodbye with his not-his-uncle uncle. "Who are you?" She asked when she saw me behind.

Sherlock popped back into view, "She's my, uh, girlfriend."

"Yes, girlfriend," I confirmed, then added in a smaller voice, "That works."

She let me pass.

"That was quite brilliant, Sherlock," I told him after we were out of earshot of her. "Are you sure you don't want to pursue a career in performing arts?" We began striding towards the dead body lying near the chalkboard up front of the class. Most of the officers around ignored us, assuming that we're on the police force or here to help. The body was lying down, face up, blood haloing around his neck.

"Performing arts? No fun in that," Sherlock answered. "This is way more exciting."

I walked up towards the victim and kneeled down, "Hey, wait, this is not Mr. Allenston. Isn't he the chemistry teacher? Why, why is he killed... here?"

An inspector, who seems to be in charge of the case with the name badge of Lestrade, rushed up towards us, "Aren't you Mycroft's little brother? You're a student here, aren't you? You're not allowed to be in here."

"Mycroft? Who's Mycroft?" I questioned Sherlock.

"As Detective Inspector -" He looked at the officer's name badge, "- Lestrade so pointed out, he is my older brother. He holds a rather prominent position in the British government, albeit his young age. He considers it his duty to keep track of me at times because he's 'worried about me'."

"He has a right to be. I'm worried about you sometimes," I laughed, trying to lighten the mood, because Lestrade was giving us a look.

As if right on cue, Lestrade cleared his throat, "Mr. Holmes the junior, you have no authority to be on a crime scene. I"m going to have to ask you to leave."  
"I'm going to be more helpful with five minutes here than all of your officers, so I am asking you to let me stay," Sherlock retorted.

"You might think that the case, which I highly doubt, but you do not have the right papers to allow you access to this crime scene. If you don't leave, I can arrest you."

"For what?"

"Trespassing."

"Excuse us a minute," I proclaimed to Lestrade and pulled Sherlock aside. "If your brother is so important, can't you text him and ask you to tell Lestrade to let you on the case? Then, voila! Problem solved."

Sherlock scowled, "I don't need help from Mycroft."

"It's either that or we get kicked out. And let me remind you that I'm not the one wanting to solve this murder."

"Fine," Sherlock stated and took out his Nokia phone. Composing a text, he then pressed the send button with a look of resignation.

Minutes later, Sherlock received a response and Lestrade's text alert sounded. After reading the response from his brother, Sherlock's face held a satisfied but slightly annoyed expression. Lestrade had a sour look, "You're clear, apparently, Sherlock," he gritted his teeth at Sherlock's name. "But don't cause any trouble or inconvenience or you are going to be kicked out."

A sallow-faced forensics officer came up to Lestrade, "Who are these two? Why are they here? They're just students, aren't they?"

"Mr. Holmes the younger and his girlfriend."

"We're not actually dat -" I tried to explain but the other officer shoved me aside and walked up to Sherlock.

"Why are you here? You're just a student here. Do your ABC's or something, this is no place for a bunch of kids," he confronted.

"Apologize to Molly," Sherlock noticed the push, but Anderson barely even glanced towards me.

"Anderson," Lestrade warned. "Mr. Mycroft Holmes gave them permission."

"Permission!" Sherlock growled. "I don't require permission from my brother. And you, Anderson, what have you learned then, from the crime scene, all this time you had, seeing at the intelligent level you seem to hold yourself at? Don't go off trying to belittle others when they can best you any day. A mere student, do I seem like? I know your birthday was approximately a few days ago from that watch you're wearing. Working at a job like this, I doubt you can afford something like that on your own whims. Your girlfriend most likely gifted to you. Probably as a guilty token for cheating on you. Yes, she is cheating on you, and I certainly wouldn't blame her. You should probably change your diet, too, because it doesn't seem to be working, judging from the flab around your waste. Maybe join an exercise regime? So please, let's move past this unpleasant stage and start the investigation!"

Anderson and Lestrade were both stunned into silence and I felt surprisingly proud.

**Thanks for reading this chapter, it was pretty fun to write. And yep, the murder. Anderson, as usual, is being an annoying little prick. It's his natural charm. :D The next update is coming soon. **


	5. Developing Investigations

"The killer didn't mean to murder him," Sherlock announced after scrupulously examining the corpse.

"What do you mean? He's DEAD, Sherlock!" I said, annoyed by his nonchalant tone.

"I mean, the killer didn't mean to kill him, isn't it obvious?" Sherlock rolled his eyes after hearing no response. "Do you not see it?"

I crossed my arms, "Sherlock..."

"Okay, look here," he gestured at the stab wound near the jugular vein, the only cut, and the cut that ultimately killed the victim. Lestrade leaned in closer, trying to see better. "One cut at a spot like this would certainly be fatal, but there seemed to be no form of a struggle, which means the victim was taken by surprise, and the killer is fast and ready. He or she must have been in the same room, waiting. Someone who knew their intended victim, who is, I assume, Mr. Allenston, who teaches here. They have some resemblance with each other, too - same hair, glasses, and physique. The culprite must've acted on impulse when he saw the figure coming and mistaken him from Allenston."

"That... still doesn't really tell us how you know he didn't mean to kill this man here," Lestrade stood up, still bemused.

"Oh you ordinary people - so stupid and blinded," Sherlock smirked. I opened my mouth to contradict but he went on, "No, no, don't take offense, Molly. It's actually a nice thought not to have my brain running on full speed all the time."

"Yes, that's all very pleasant, but how did you know?" Lestrade said, impatient with Sherlock's ramblings.

"This murder was planned, planned for Allenston. He was killed approximately an hour before, judging by the colour of the blood. That is probably when he comes in to prepare for class. What probably happened was that he was a little late and the chemistry teacher comes in to look for him, talk to him, something, when he thought Allenston would be there. He wasn't, and instead, bumped into the killer who happened to mistaken the chemistry teacher for the biology one. He or she stabs Albers (that's the victim's name, right?) in the neck, as he had planned, but then realizes that he had gotten the wrong person."

"But it was too late," I picked up his reasoning. "The blade went in and he quickly pulls back and ran off, leaving Albers bleeding to death."

"Why didn't Albers get help after he was stabbed? One tiny stab?" Anderson chimed in. "Simple plot hole, do you not realize?"

I rolled my eyes at him in the same manner Sherlock had done earlier, "This should be easy to see, seeing your occupation. He was stabbed in the jugular! The veins that connect the brain to the heart that is not surrounded by bone or cartilage, therefore making it very susceptible to attacks. 95% of the blood in the body flows through there, and it bleeds profusely more, leaving the victim in hypovolaemic shock. Dying, basically. So can you see the problem with him getting help?"

Anderson fell silent with a pouting look as Sherlock actually smiled at me, "That was... nice." It quickly faded when he seemed to suddenly have an epiphany. "Oh... oh! This is an interesting development. This is very interesting. This is a game-changer."

"What?" Lestrade demanded. "Stop doing this, this having-realisations-and-acting-like-we-don't-deser ve-to-know thing and just tell us. This isn't even your case and if you are not going to be helpful or cooperative, then leave."

"I doubt you want me to leave, considering I've been more helpful than ten Andersons ever will," ("Wait a minute!") Sherlock clasped his hands together and brought it up in front of his mouth. "He is she is still here, nearby. Biding their time, I suppose, and waiting to strike again, to finish the job. You have to quarantine the area! Do not let ANYONE leave this area. We can't risk him getting away."

Lestrade seemed taken aback, but lifted up his walkie-talkie and gave the order.

"Where is Allenston? I need to speak with him. He discovered the dead body, correct?" Sherlock inquired.

"Yes, but he's slightly in shock. Got one of those blanket things. He's sitting in the ambulance outside the building," Lestrade explained.

"Designate an officer to guard him. The killer is going to want to try again. Or better yet, use him as bait to try to draw out the perpetrator out of hiding, but I doubt that he's dumb enough to fall for that. I'm going to interrogate Allenston, Molly, are you coming?"

We took out exit.

Sherlock stalked up to the old biology teacher who was sitting all curled up and shivering, and immediately started off, "Mr. Allenston, do you know anyone that you've had a row with recently? Enough to want to kill you?"

"Mr., Mr. Holmes?" The man looked up, confused. "Aren't you -"

" - in your class, yes," Sherlock interrupted. "That's not relevant. With whom have you disagreed with recently?"

"You're not with the police. Why should I tell you? This is ridiculous. Where was that nice man from before? His name was, was Anderson or something?"

"Just answer my question!"

"Let me get this, Sherlock," I said, stepping in. "Look, he has been cleared to be on the case as a... consultant, and to catch the killer, we need some answers."

"Why are you asking me? I'm not the one getting killed. You should ask Tim Alber's parents or wife, not me. He's the victim," Allenston complained, then issued a deep cough.

"Any semi- intelligent being would be able to see that that the killer is aiming for you. So talk." Sherlock finished with a dramatic glare. He drew back, then the corner of his lip drew upward into a coy grin, "How long do you have left?"

"What? What are you talking about?"

"You're clearly dying from lung cancer. It's probably metastasized so that the doctors cannot take it out via surgery. You've tried chemo, but it wasn't very successful, judging by your thinning hair. The cough before clearly indicate the lungs and it wasn't a normal cough, either. It's one of those breathy, drawn-out ones that smokers possess. Your skin's slightly discolored, so that means either bad nutrition or a loss of appetite. This all points towards lung cancer, so let me repeat - how long do you have left?"

"Sherlock, don't be so insensitive. We're talking about someone's life," I told him to the side in a quiet voice so Mr. Allenston doesn't overhear.

"Fine," we turned back towards the man. "Mr. Allenston, how long did your doctor say you have left to experience the beauty of human life? Better?" Sherlock looked for my reaction.

"Not much," I muttered.

Allenston stayed quiet for a while, as if contemplating the whole situation, then sighed and finally answered, "A few months."

"I need to see your will."

"Say that again?"

"Your will. You're dying, so obviously, this is a good time to finalize your will. Someone could've gotten made, a cousin, sibling, because you cut them out or didn't dish out a fair share. Always a good fuel for feuds, wills are."

"I don't feel comfortable sharing -"

"Are you asking to be killed?"

"No!"

"Please, just give it to him, it'll make this endeavour a lot less stressful," I shook my head, trying to convince Allenston without Sherlock going all deducey on him.

"I'll - I'll have my lawyer email the document to you," Allenston stuttered.

"Good. My email address, "Sherlock took out a scrap of paper and scribbled the letters down and handed it to him. "Please tell your lawyer to do it as soon as possible. Tonight at the latest. I'll be off."

Right after we walked away from all the commotion, Maddy ran up to us, cheeks flushed, "Molly! I heard about the murder! It's horrible. And apparently, this area is being quarantined, but the good thing is that classes and exams are all being pushed back."

"That's... good."

"Oh, and I heard there's going to be a giant party or celebration tonight at your dorms building. The whole campus is invited. You know, to celebrate the no-classes thing. You should come, Sherlock," Maddy seemed to set aside all the unpleasantness and turned her attention to the more joyful effects of the homicide.

"No, I need time to think. In peace. I'll come and tell you, Molly, if I find anything unusual or significant. Have a nice day," he nodded at us and walked off towards the opposite direction.

Maddy turned towards me, "Help me decide what to wear for tonight."

**Thank you for reading, awesome person. This chapter was mostly technical stuff, just for the purpose of the case, so there wasn't too much happening between Molly and Sherlock. But the next is going to be... fluffier. :D Keep tuned in! And comments and critiques are always welcome. **


	6. At the Nick of Time

**You might have noticed I upped the ratings a bit. Just to be safe for this chapter. And for future plans. If you know what I mean.**

"This one, this one, or this one?" Maddy asked and held up three different outfits, dangling them out in front of her. There was a pile of already-rejected shirts and dresses and skirts on the floor.

"I don't know! Why does it matter?" I flopped down on top of her bed. "How did you manage to get a single dorms room?"

"Don't change the subject. And this party is important! There'll be boys. And likely all forms of alcoholic beverages. And most importantly, food," Maddy winked.

"What happened to your boyfriend?"

"Eh, wasn't working. We broke up. No biggie," she shrugged and tossed another outfit into the rejection pile. "Besides, don't be a party-pooper just because your arrogant, anti-social, beautiful boyfriend, Sherlock isn't coming."

I denied it, "Look, for the last time, we're just partners -"

"- in matrimony," Maddy teased.

I reached over and slapped her arm.

"Okay, okay, forget that. Let's get down to business and exfoliate some pores and do some hair," Maddy clapped her hands and sat me down on a chair. "You're going to look fabulous after I am through."

It was only six in the afternoon, but music was clearly audible from my building, which was located right next to Maddy's.

"Can't the teachers hear it? Won't they try to stop it?" I asked, skeptical of the success of the celebration. "And the drinking. There are police RIGHT ON CAMPUS!"

"I guess they're just glad we're not all dropping out of this school, leaving them with no further source of income with a reputation like this. They probably think the party might lighten the mood a bit. Besides, a lot of idiots think this is a joke of some sort or nothing to get all worked up about."

"If you say so..."

"Come on, time to go," Smiling at me, Maddy grabbed her phone and skipped out of her door, singing, " 'Cuz the party don't start 'till I walk in."

I followed her out, but it took skills that I did have to walk well in the heels that Maddy lent me. In the end, I just gave up, took them off, and walked barefoot into the building next door.

Let me just say, it was packed tighter than... anything anyone can find a comparison for. I cringed at the extremity of the noise. Already, I regretted coming. No, actually, I felt trespassed because this was my dorms building, where my dorm room is located.

"Oh shit," I swore, remember my dorm. With all these people, someone is bound to go in there and maybe mess with my things. Running up to to the second floor, it was discovered that my lovely roommate, Allie, had the common sense that most lacked to lock the door. I heaved a relieved sigh and walked back down to the rec center in the first floor to get some food. I mean, although this wasn't my type of party, there was at least free pizza and crisps somebody bought.

Already, Maddy is nowhere to be seen and Allie wasn't there from the beginning. Thinking about it, it's slightly sad that I've only made friends with three people - if you'd call Sherlock a friend. Looking around, there were couples making out, non-couples making out, people flirting, and I frowned at how publicly they seem to display it.

Snatching up another slice of pepperoni pizza, I sat myself down in the first couch I saw and glumly looked around. Trying to pass time, I took up what Sherlock had done in the café and started examining everyone and tried to foretell their life story.

Lost in my thoughts, I didn't realized when a stocky guy sat down beside me, crunching on crisps. His eyes had an almost predatory glare to it, but it disappeared and was replaced by a friendly look. Maybe I was just being a little bit paranoid.

I glanced over and gave him a small smile, attempting to be friendly, "So, how're you liking the party?"

He returned the smile and answered, "Pretty sucky for a party. No entertainment. Just people making out and people binge drinking. I'm James, by the way."

"Molly," I reached over and shook hands with him. "I actually didn't want to come, but my dorms is in this building - on the second floor - so it was kind of inevitable."

James nodded, "Yeah, my friend convinced me to come, but completely ditched me right when we arrived in the building."

"Well, it seems like we're two birds of a feather, or whatever the saying is, because I have no clue where my friend is either."

"Can I get you something to drink?"

"No, no, I'm fine, thanks."

"I insist! Isn't that the chivalrous thing to do?" He laughed.

"I suppose." Was he flirting with me?! Because this would be a first. "I suppose a drink would be alright."

He left and later came back with two red Solo cups full of beer. I frowned, thinking he was originally going to get soda or something. Beer has never held much appeal for me.

I took a small sip and grimaced at the taste. James, however, gulped down half of it Wanting to be polite, I drank a few more small mouthfuls.

He set his cup down on his leg, since there wasn't a table nearby, and asked me questions about the classes I was taking, with one hand around the drink to keep the cup steady.

"Um, yeah, i was thinking of majoring in bio or some medicinal field, but my mom wants me in psychology, which is the reason I'm taking a class in that field at all. And yeah..." I trailed off and stifled a yawn that came upon me.

He nodded in comprehension and shifted his leg unconsciously, causing the cup to tip over accidentally. A splash of it flew and landed on my shorts.

"Oh dammit! Sorry!" He apologized.

"It's fine, it's fine," I said and stood up, trying to wipe it off with my hand. A rush of blood came over my head and I felt light headed.

"I'm so sorry! Look, your dorm is upstairs, right?" James stood up, too. "You can go up and change so you don't reek of beer all night."

"Good idea," I said and started to leave, but stumbled. James strided forward and caught me. Why am I being so clumsy? I didn't even drink that much beer. I can't be drunk or anything, I thought as we arrived at my floor. I didn't drink much... but I didn't see James actually get the drink, either.

I hit my realization right after I unlocked my dorm. Before I can say anything, he pushed the door open and myself inside the room.

"You - you drugged the drink," I said, my speech slurring and getting a bit more difficult to control.

"You didn't drink all that much, but it was definitely enough," James smiled, a face full of malice.

My heart started pounding, a consistent drumming in my ear, "Enough for -?"

"Oh, honey, do you really need to ask?" he prowled forward.

I brought my hands up against my forehead. It felt like a migraine was coming on. My legs feel too sluggish to run. Is, is there a weapon in my room somewhere? A knife? Anything? I stepped back and almost felt my feet collapse underneath.

"Shoulda drank more, honey, then you'd be out cold and this would be a lot less traumatic," James purred and grasped my shoulder, pushing me down onto the bed.

Him kissing me was the most confusing thing because on one hand, my lips were numb and didn't feel much, but I could still see pretty well, even with the lights off, and hearing was no problem.

And it took awhile to actually realize he was no longer present in my vision.

There was another figure in the room. Just a silhouette of a very curly-haired person who just happened to slug James in the face twice.

"It was consentual on both sides!" James shouted in one last desperate attempt to get away with the whole incident, pinned down the the second figure.

"Do you think I am an idiot?" the curly hair person growled. "Who the hell are you?!"

"Sher - Sherlock?" I attempted to try to sit upright. Yes, of course it was him. Who else could it have been?

Sherlock looked up at the sound of my voice, meanwhile slightly loosening his grip on the smaller man.

Taking this chance, James shifted and managed to push Sherlock off. A second later, he was scampering out the door.

Looking after him in disgust, Sherlock was tempted to follow, but realizing that I needed help to actually move anywhere, he strided over, put my arm around his shoulder, and helped me up on a standing position.

"Look, I'm going to bring you to my dorms. It's too loud in here to do any type of resting. Is, is that okay with you?"

I nodded, but still had a question, "Why are you here? I thought you didn't like parties. Or people."

He laughed slightly, but in a very melancholy tone, "At a state like this, you're still more concerned about why I'm here rather than your own health and mental condition? If you must know, I've got a lead on the case and I was coming to tell you."

"That - that's good," I murmured, barely keeping my eyes open, much more sleepy now that I felt safer.

Sherlock sighed, "Molly, just sleep." Lifting me up so that he was fully supporting my weight, he let my head lean against his chest, and his heart was beating somewhat rapidly, too. "Just go to sleep."

I think that was the last thing I remembered before the Sandman took me away.

**Thanks for reading another installment. Poor Molly, but don't worry, she'll get her revenge soon enough. As for the name of James, I needed a semi-villain, so I just chose it based off of James Moriarty from the canon Sherlock Holmes. And for those of you not familiar with the Sandman, he's the equivalent of Santa, except he brings dreams and sleep to everybody. **


	7. Intermission

Sherlock Holmes prides himself on his ability to disassociate. To basically look at everything from a third-person perspective, even his own feelings, which was how he managed to suppress everything, to rise above it all. It is especially helpful for dealing with situations without letting feelings anywhere near the proximity of the reasoning parts of his brain.

There had only been three times when emotions had surpassed the logics.

First came primary school. Third year. Oh, it had been the usual bullying, led mainly by a foolish boy by the name of Evan. No, not foolish, he was clever, actually, and it made Sherlock grimace to have himself admit to that. There had always been a new prank he'd formulated to try to torment the eight year old boy who was too smart for his own good.

Nothing too damaging though, because Sherlock didn't give two craps about what they thought and held no weight. However, revenge was actually a pleasant sensation and he had gotten back at them by hacking into the teacher's computer and changing all their grades and comments.

They found out, Evan and his crew. No, Sherlock doubted they knew for a fact, they most likely assumed. A rightful assumption, at that, but there was no hard evidence. The group had cornered him under the monkey bars and Evan had punched him on the nose, leaving it bloodied.

Before he can register, tears welled up in Sherlock's eyes and his face scrunched into an expression of hurt. The pain of the injury had shocked the child Sherlock. Sure, there had been boo-boos and scratches, but nothing to this degree.

He ran off, seeking sanctuary from further assault and cleaned up the wound by himself. Mycroft had later asked about it, but Sherlock denied any incident taking place. Retreating into his room, his mind palace, the vindictive boy began plotting the perfect retribution.

Let's just say Evan moved to another city and nobody ever touched him again in school.

But still, he had cried. Tears do nothing for planning and productivity.

The second grade wasn't as severe and had been in eighth grade, and his teacher had clearly made a mistake in the interpretation of a line in Romeo and Juliet. She had denied the accusation completely and Sherlock himself had gotten so frustrated with her stubbornness that he stormed out of the class.

The third had been tonight. It seemed obvious that Molly had been drugged. GHB, probably, gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid. The most common of date rape substances and it seemed like the alleged James is not very creative. He had felt a rush to the head and just... reacted.

He was thinking about that now as he laid the sleeping woman down on the bed and covered her with a comforter. It was a rather chilly night.

Taking out his violin, he sat down and plucked quietly to try to calm his heartbeat from the adrenaline rush.

Caring is not an advantage. Sherlock had told himself that many times over the course of his life. Emotions slow down his deductions, and it was all just a mass of hormones and chemicals trying to bring out the primordial part of someone, and it was pathetic seeing most people succumb to their effects.

Trying to remain clear-minded, Sherlock's eyes swept the room and tried to find something, anything, to deduce. He needed to know his mind was okay. They landed on the only other living being in the flat, Molly.

Yes, she seemed to be dreaming, as for the fact that she is completely immobilized, and that happens when one is experiencing rapid eye movements. Makeup is done by someone else, possibly Maddy, as it seems more than what she is capable of.

James. Who is James? Sherlock doubts that it's his real name. No one is that stupid. But then again, nobody thinks like him and takes extra precautions. Maybe there's just a slight chance that he was idiotic enough to disclose personal information.

James needs to be found. For the safety of Molly... and everyone else, of course. There is a bigger picture here, of course. But why does he care? He doesn't, does he? He knows himself better than he knows anyone else, and caring is not wired into his hard drive. Never has been. There's not a chance of that. Of course not, this is just his mind rebelling.

Sherlock flipped open his laptop and opened the campus databased, filled with all the personal records that the school said was "private and will not be disclosed to anyone". He typed in "James". 13 results, excluding the staff. There are too many plausible candidates. He needs to narrow it down by height, weight, and other other filters he could think of that he had noticed about the man.

It's going to be a tedious night...

**Sorry this took a while and is a bit short. Writer's block is a terrible thing. Anyways, thanks for reading and following. Comments and critiques are, as always, welcome. **

**I also need some advice for this: should I start writing the story in third person? The ones where it takes Molly's perspective. It seems more flowy this chapter and delves deeper into the thoughts of all characters involved. Tell me what you think. :)**


	8. Family Affairs

In my dream I was flying, way above London, way above everything, just floating in midair. It was so peaceful, serene, and the wind blowing through my hair felt so nice... until a voice broke through and interrupted my zen mood.

Along with the voice, a dark, curly haired man apparated in the space behind me and started calling my name, "Molly. Molly, wake up!"

Wait, what?

I sat up fleetingly, alarmed and disoriented. My head hurts. This feels like a hangover, not that I've had one before, but isn't this what is was like in that one movie...? What the hell happened last night?

Sherlock's face had an urgent look on it as my vision cleared and I managed to take in my surrounding, "Molly, I have a list of plausible 'James' candidates based on weight, height, and shoe size, and I need you correctly identify your assailant."

Oh. It all came back to me. I fell back onto the bed with a loud thump and clutched my face, "I am an idiot. A freaking idiot. Why was I so stupid? It was blaring at me from a kilometer away. Shit. Shit!"

"Snap out of it, Molly. Look, do you remember what he looks like? It's imperative that you do. The lighting in your dorm was not sufficient for me to get an accurate glimpse of his facial features," he took out a stack of pages in a manila folder and presented them to me.

I finally managed to calm down a bit, clambered out of the bed with an affronted look, and piped, "I can't just... 'snap out of it'. I'm not a cold, calculating machine like you, alright. No one is. I'm sorry, that was uncalled for, my feelings are all mixed up and I –" one of the pictures in the stack caught my eye.

Sherlock noticed my reaction, "It's a match, then." He read the profile, "Christopher Ethan Wales. Junior, from America, it seems like. Grew up in a very rich family, which explains why he was accepted here with grades like those. Majoring in writing and literatures. Houses in the building next to that department."

I squeezed my eyes shut for a brief few seconds and let this extreme anger wash over me. My fists were clenched and I slowly took a deep breath and vowed, "I am going to _throttle that bastard_!"

Sherlock seemed slightly amused by my outburst and half smiled, "I have a more effective punishment than just physical assault."

"What?"

"Just trust me. With a few computer clicks, his future will be permanently tarnished, and his family's money won't do any good. What's that phrase superheroes say in films? 'Justice will be served'? He will get what he earned. People often do."

Before I can inquire further on what he means, his cell phone rang with an urgent feel to it, but all Sherlock did is glance at the caller ID with an annoyed look and pressed "ignore".

"Who was that?" I asked.

"Mycroft."

"Why didn't you answer? It must be important," I gestured to the device.

"It's not," he insisted.

A brief minute later, my phone rang and it showed an unfamiliar number. I answered before Sherlock could protest, "Hello?"

"Miss Hooper, am I correct? This is Mycroft Holmes, the brother of your insufferable boyfriend who has no sense to pick up the phone."

"We're not –"

"Could you please do me the favor of handing this device to him so we may converse?" Mycroft asked.

I tried to hand Sherlock my phone, but he just turned away with a sour look like a pouting kindergartener.

"He won't take it," I informed Mycroft.

"Put it on speaker," Mycroft instructed and I did so. "Sherlock Holmes, listen to me, you are required to –"

"I am not required to do anything, just that you merely have the illusion that I am," Sherlock snapped.

"Fine. You are_ formally requested_ to come back this weekend to London, by both myself and Mummy, to attend the funeral."

Funeral? I mouthed my confusion to Sherlock, but he merely waved it off with a disgruntled expression and said to his brother, "Requests are refusable. I formally refuse to go. My presence is needed here. So thanks, but really, no thanks, I refuse to attend the funeral."

"Not if it's your own father's."

"Oh really?" Sherlock challenged. "He was my father in the most biological sense. Nothing else. Besides, I have a case to solve."

"The killing of the campus teacher? Still? I'm very shocked that you don't have any leads or suspects."

"I do, in fact."

"Good, then inform Lestrade of your suspicions and let him take care of it. You, then, are coming to London to attend the funeral, and I am not giving you a choice," Mycroft's voice sound exasperated, yet like he was used to these types of arguments.

"Make me," now Sherlock just sounds like a whiny child who didn't want to go to bed.

"I will," Mycroft warned.

"You know, bigger brothers shouldn't bully their little brothers. It's not becoming. Mummy wouldn't like this."

"I sent a car. It should be down in half an hour. Mummy wants you to stay for at least three days. Pack accordingly."

"Three days," Sherlock grimaced.

"Oh, also, Miss Hooper is certainly very welcome to come alone. In fact, Mummy has requested for her presence. It's certainly not everyday where the people-hating Sherlock Holmes has a girlfriend, friend, or whatever you say is the relationship between you two. You know, Molly, Sherlock was a very reclusive pariah during much of his life. All of his life. And speaking of social –"

Sherlock ended the call.

"Sorry about your dad."

"Don't me. He wasn't much of one."

Silence. Then he goes, "You should start packing."

"You can't be serious," I exclaimed. "You aren't, right? I don't even know Mycroft, or your mum, or anyone else in your family, for that matter. This is very unetiquettical."

"That's not a word," Sherlock said.

"That's not the point. The point is that normal people don't just invite acquaintances to go to funerals of their not-so-much-of-a-father father."

"The Holmes family is not a normal one, I assure you."

"And besides, how in the_ world_ did Mycroft know we've even met each other? Let alone my name and phone number. No, don't tell me he's stalking everyone who comes into contact with you. Don't you find that a bit unsettling? Because I certainly do," I declared.

"Stalking is not the correct term here. He shows his affections in uncustomary ways," Sherlock sighed. "And just... please? I need an anchor to the outside world. The Holmes household can be very dysfunctional and bothersome."

Is he pleading? "I–"

"Great, then it's all decided."

"Good, you're done packing early. The car should be here in two minutes. Mycroft's people are known to be extremely punctual," Sherlock greeted at the bottom of the building where I found out was where his flat was located. His own flat. His own flat. I let that sink in for a few seconds, and I hadn't really realized until now how well-to-do he must be.

"You're rich?" I blurted.

"What gave it away?" he said, a slight bitter taste in his mouth. "Why should it matter? Why should it matter how much wealth I or my family possesses? I mean, would that change your perspective of me?" For a millisecond there, he almost sounded sincerely concerned about what I thought, which was out of the ordinary for someone so uncaring like him.

"No, no, I'm not that kind of person," I reassured him.

These are certainly very interesting developments and I have no idea what to make of them. And whatever I do decide upon will probably turn out to be false, because someone like Sherlock seems to be a blend of all sorts of greys, not black and white about things like most people are.

Me, the usually unnoticed Molly, is suddenly off to visit the broken family of an unemotional genius who happened to turn out to be relative nice, but of whom I don't know much about. And then there's his brother, who seems to hold some influence in the British government, and his mum, who they are refer to as "Mummy". This is all just a tad bit bizarre. OH, and there is an alleged killer on the loose in the area.

Great. On the bright side, classes are delayed indefinitely. Then again, it's coming off of my tuition. I groaned at the unappealing thought. Then I thought of something, "I thought the area was quarantined to try to catch the culprit?"

"Yes, but I know who it is and texted Lestrade the details and told him to lift the quarantine," Sherlock remarked as, right on time, a sleek, black car pulled up to the curb. He opened the door for me and gestured for me to enter the vehicle.

"Who was it? Enlighten me," I slipped into the car. It had a pretty interior, with leather seats and everything.

"I went through Allenston's will and family tree, and the document covered pretty much everyone on there, but there was an anomaly. Someone by the name of Samuel Lemmings was not on there," Sherlock explained as he ducked into the car and the driver started the engine.

"He could just be one of his close friends that he wanted to leave something to," I contradicted.

"Unlikely. He is about as old as we are, too young for someone like Allenston to have much in common with, and it was a pretty large sum that was left to him. And there is something else. I looked at his birth records. His mother is named Alicia, yet there is no father recorded."

"You're implying that Samuel is Allenston's illegitimate son or something? That's a bit too far fetched, don't you think?" I said skeptically.

"Hear me out, there's more. He is currently institutionalized for a methamphetamine addiction and also narcissistic personality disorder. With his mum out of the picture (died two years back), guess who is currently paying for his hospital bills? Allenston. I looked at his bank statements. Obviously, Allenston had told him, before the whole murder plot, of his ancestry and Sam most likely became very enraged."

"Enraged enough to kill?"

"Keep in mind that he is a classified narcissist who has a got a parent out of the picture for most of his life. The bloke probably thought he wasn't 'good enough' for his father to pay attention to, and that is one of the worst ways to anger a narcissist – tell them that they're not good enough." Sherlock leaned back on his seat with a face full of satisfaction at his fluid deductions.

"Brilliant."

"You think so?" he then proceeded to suppress a huge yawn.

I frowned with concern, "Sherlock, when was the last time you slept? You have bags under your eyes."

He shrugged nonchalantly, "48 hours ago? Maybe more? It's not a big deal. I've gone on much longer without needing to rest my eyes. Sleep is not imperative in my life."

"That's not healthy. You can sleep in the car right now."

"Can't. Not tired," he rebutted.

"Would it help if I knocked you out cold?" I joked.

"You wouldn't."

"Oh?"

**Thanks for reading another installment of the tale. :D I also want to give a shoutout to ****VictoriaLucia**** for her helpful reviews. **

**Also, a side note– this is not the end or the solution of the murder crime. There'll be more plot twists to come! Anyways, until next time!**


	9. A Talk About Feelings

Sherlock did end up dozing off in the car (I didn't punch him, but it certainly would've been hilarious. Although I did poke him on the side for making a comment about my physical state not being adequate enough in the current situation to knock him out cold and also me not having a violent disposition.)

Imagine my surprise when his head drooped, unaware, onto my shoulders, eyes still shut, lose in his dreams. Not wanting to disturb him, I let him stay in that position and brushed his dark curls off of his eyes. He looked so much less douchey and egotistical when he wasn't talking.

This is nice.

After a short while– or had it been a long time? I lost track– the vehicle rolled to a stop in front of a gorgeous mansion that I assumed belonged to "Mummy" Holmes. It looked like it was taken straight out of a _Better Homes and Gardens_ magazine.

I shrank at the now-intimidating idea of meeting her.

A tall man wearing a suit walked out of the front door upon seeing our arrival and peered into the window. He seemed to suppress a smug smile.

Embarrassed, I quickly said, "Sherlock fell asleep. I didn't want to wake him."

The man smirked, "No need for an explanation, Miss Hooper. I am Mycroft Holmes, the one who called you both and I think it'd be best if my brother is to be awakened now, wouldn't you agree?"

"Oh yeah, yeah, of course," I replied, flustered. I propped Sherlock up into proper sitting position, although he was still unconscious, and shouted, "Wake up!" rather loudly into his ear.

His eyes flew open at alarming speed, "What the–?"

"Ah, dear brother, finally awake? You do seem to fall asleep at unconventional times," Mycroft grinned sarcastically. "Sorry to disturb your intimate moment there with Miss Hooper."

"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about," Sherlock rubbed his eyes and we both got out of the car. "And I assume, Molly, you had the pleasure of conversing with my _very_ _important_ brother, Mycroft?"

"Yes, Miss Hooper and I had that chance," Mycroft said graciously. "Now please, let us go inside. Mummy has been waiting your arrival."

"Didn't she used to say that patience is a virtue?" Sherlock remarked snarkily.

"Waiting only goes for someone who deserves it," Mycroft replied just as sassily.

This is really sibling rivalry at its best.

"Okay," my voice sounded a bit high and unnaturally cheerful as I tried to move past this. "Maybe we should –"

Before I could finish, a middle-aged woman appeared at the door, face bright and joyful, "Sherlock!" She rushed forward and gave a giant bear hug to him.

"Mummy," he awkwardly put his arms around her. "You really need to get more sleep, you seem very tired. How much have you been getting? Four hours a day?"

I gave Sherlock a look, "Coming from someone like you?"

The woman turned, looking genuinely pleased to see me, "You must be Molly! I've heard a lot about you." She turned and unexpectedly gave me a just-as-giant embrace as she had given her son.

"Um, yes, Mrs. Holmes," I smiled at her pleasantness. How did someone so_ nice_ raise Sherlock to be... him?

"Oh, no, you must call me Violet, dear, come on, I'll get you settled in the house," she urged me inside the large door, into this massive, glistening room with a shiny chandelier hanging from the ceiling.

"Oh my– wow," my mouth hanged opened, agape. I had way underestimated his apparent wealth. This was brilliant! Coming from a girl with relatively thrifty parents, this felt like a special place in paradise.

"Molly, dear, I'll have Sherlock bring your things up to the guest room –" she threw him a look, "– and I'll go make some food for you."

"Um, I'll go help Sherlock, too," I had some questions. There was something weird about this over-cheerfulness that didn't really fit the news that someone had just died. We both shuffled out towards the direction of the car and I shut the front door behind. "Okay, Sherlock, tell me what's going on."  
He didn't answer and first and instead retrieved both of our luggage from the trunk.

I continued, "Your dad is _dead_, Sherlock."

"Yes, thank you for that clarification."

I ignored that comment, "And yet nobody in your family seems to be grieving. Is this like a Holmes thing where you're all particularly unemotional, or was your father just an ass?"

"A bit of both, really, for myself," Sherlock grinned faintly. "But as you've probably picked up back there (you know, I really didn't expect you to be intuitive enough to pick this all up. I guess I underestimated you), Mummy isn't too shy of sentiment and expresses hows he feels, so for her, it was more because of the being an ass objective."

It seemed like a sensitive subject, or as sensitive as it can get with Sherlock, so I didn't press the issue further.

The guest room given to me was on the second floor, right next door to Sherlock's that he apparently had since he was a child, although there wasn't a lot of use for it since he was often away at boarding school when he was younger.

It was slightly larger than my dorm at uni, but not so much that I wasn't sure what to do with all the extraneous space.

After I had gotten settled, the overly nice Violet had asked me to give her a hand in preparing dinner. Throughout the whole cooking process, Sherlock had been left to pace the house, bored out of his mind.

"Is he always like this?" I asked Violet, amused by his exasperation. It's always nice to see a more human side of him.

"You should've seen him when he was little," Violet laughed. "The trains and puzzles just weren't enough to hold his attention for more than thirty seconds. Everything he did always seemed to need a purpose."

"I really don't see the purpose of telling off the professors at uni," I recalled orchestra and laughed.

"That's him alright. Always has to one-up people. But you know," Violet remarked. "I haven't seen him this relaxed and docile since since forever. You two being together has been doing a lot of good for him."

"Oh, you think that..? No, we're not dating. Can you imagine_ him_ in a relationship? I mean, even if I liked him, he is just so, um, distant," I said, stumbling over some words.

Violet seemed disappointed.

"He does have good qualities," I added, not wanting her to think that I saw Sherlock as a complete sociopathic jerk. Deep down, I think, without me realizing it, the idea of being with him, or just seeing him on a daily basis, are becoming more and more appealing. "He's certainly very smart and he really does have nice hair."

"He gets it from his father," she said, then her face fell.

We cooked the rest of the meal without much discussion, except some few light talks and some "How much salt?" and "Can you pass me the spoon?" scattered here and there.

Dinner started off perfectly fine with Violet and Mycroft making small conversation and asking me and Sherlock a few questions occasionally.

Disrupting the veil of seeming normality, Sherlock's phone rang and he reached into his pocket to retrieve it.

"Sherlock, we're eating," Violet reprimanded.

"it's Lestrade. This has to be important," he replied and put the phone up to his ear. "Yes, what? What? Are you sure...? That can't be right... I know it's him... Look..." He scowled and then shut off the phone. "He hanged up on me."

"What did he want?" I asked.

"He said that he and Anderson had gone over to the institution and investigated, but there were no escaped patients, and that Samuel had apparently been there the whole time. He never left the building," Sherlock frowned.

"Well, then it has to be someone else," I said.

"No, there has to be something that's missing. It is him, I know it. The only option left. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth, and he is the only option left. All the others have some form of contradiction to the evidence."

"The case that Mycroft let you on?" Violet frowned.

"He didn't let me on the case,'" Sherlock protested.

"I beg to differ," Mycroft jumped in.

"That's all beside the point," he turned to Violet, "I need to go to the institution to investigate myself. You can never trust those Scotland Yard people."

"Absolutely not. You're staying here for three days like you had agreed to and leave the investigating to the professionals."

"Agreed to? Force is a more correct term," he scoffed. "And you're insinuating that I'm an amateur?"

"No, I'm saying that you should stay for the funeral of your own father and leave the case to the people who are being paid to do what they do and has a degree in criminology."

"Having a degree is hardly a sign of competency," he rolled his eyes and glanced at me. "Anderson for one."

I snorted, but Violet and Mycroft just seemed confused.

Sherlock got up from the table, "I suppose you can't have complaints against me for doing some sleuthing here."

"You should finish your food," Violet said, noticing his full plate. "You've lost a lot of weight since the last time I saw you."

Sherlock shook it off, "Food will just make me sluggish and slow."

For the rest of the night, me and Violet just lounged in the family room and watched telly while Mycroft took care of some business on his phone. I never thought it would be, but I felt very comfortable hanging around her, like a friend, really.

Sherlock, I'm guessing, is tapping away on his laptop upstairs.

Come 10:30 PM, I bid them both a "good night" and strolled up to the guest room and tried my best to fall asleep. However, for some reason, I felt restless in the unfamiliar bed and layed there for half an hour, just tossing and turning.

The voice next door, to which I recognized as belonging to Sherlock and violet, rose and there was some sort of disagreement.

Curious, yet a bit guilty at the notion of eavesdropping, but the curiosity won out, I crept closer to the wall to get a better sense of what they were saying.

"Mum, just stop it," Sherlock said with irritation coloring his voice.

"She likes you, I can see it, and I know you feel something, too, in that big brain of yours," Violet urged.

I felt a slight chill and got the feeling that they were talking about me.

"Please, just forget this whole ordeal. Molly is merely a... friend. I'm sure that what she feels is that for a friend, not romantic-oriented. As for what I'm feeling –"

"Sherlock, you're blinded when it comes to sentiment. Trust me on this. Ask her out for coffee or something. You'll thank me for it once you come into terms with your own feelings," Violet said.

"My feelings are irrelevant to the circumstance. And besides, she has no logical reason to, as you said, 'fancy me'."

"Love is not logical."

"Love," Sherlock said with disdain. "She doesn't love me."

"You shouldn't be scared of unfamiliar things," Violet told him, voice soft.

"I'm not and now I am politely asking you to leave because I need to concentrate on the case."

There were two clicks as the door to his room was opened and closed as Violet left. I heard Sherlock sigh in what seems like relief.

I made up my mind minutes later and lightly tip-toed out my room and quietly knocked on his door. There were things I needed to clear up or I never would be able to fall asleep tonight.

"Who is it?" Sherlock asked cautiously.

"It's Molly," I called out.

A pause as the door opened as Sherlock appeared, dressed surprisingly casual in a white shirt and trousers, different from his usual uni attire.

"Can I come in?"

He he nodded.

"Look, I heard what you and Violet said..."  
"Yes, that would be the most logical theory on my part," Sherlock said. "And am I right in believing that you're here to talk about your feelings and reactions to the conversation?"

"No, I'm here to talk about you." I really didn't know where I'm going with this.

"He seemed surprised at my reply.

I took a step closer, all the while looking into his eyes with a serious expression, "You don't think you deserve to be loved." I took a shot in the dark.

Sherlock was about to say something, but then thought better of it and closed his mouth.

"You're wrong, you know," I said and did probably the most audacious thing besides going on that rollercoaster in fourth grade after stuffing down two ice cream cones. I closed the distance between the two of us, got on my tippy toes, and gave him a quick, light kiss on the cheeks.

He breathed in sharply and took a step back, bewildered and bemused. My expression turned slightly hurt at his reaction.

"Would you want to go out for some coffee?" he blurted out.

**Woot, this was fun to write. As you can see, things are getting fluffier! :D Please do tell me if anything becomes OOC or if there's a plot hole and I'll try to fix it. **

**Also, thanks to MorbidbyDefault, Guest, Kristina, VictoriaLucia, louvreangel, and mushsroomsandcucumbers for reviewing! Always very helpful and motivates me to crunch it out a lot faster. **


	10. A Funeral and Some Coffee

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: Concerning the point of view of this story: After careful consideration and suggestions from friends and people, I have decided to keep most of the story in first person. Note the "most". There will be exceptions, for example, in relatively PG-13 and R-ish scenes (because it's a bit awkward and less difficult to write that in first person), and sometimes, I will be switching to Sherlock's point of view in third person in a chapter (like this one). So hopefully, I made the right call and I would appreciate your comments on it. **

I was, to say the least, very shocked at the question, yet part of me wasn't. It's like eating a food that you don't have a preference for. You're not very surprised that it doesn't taste very good, yet surprised that it was as bad as it is. Then again the fact that Sherlock had been the one to ask the question, but it would certainly shock anyone who knew him.

"Sure, yes, I mean, coffee sounds great," I sputtered.

Sherlock offered a faint smile and regained his seriousness and professionality.

Turning to the glowing laptop, I pointed and asked, "Found anything useful so far? The case? You know you could always just tell Lestrade that you're very sure of the fact that it's him and tell him to take Samuel in for you to question."

"No, he won't listen. But I did manage to get ahold of Samuel's case files from the rehab center. Look here," Sherlock sat down and brought up a page. "Diagnosed with semi-mild narcissistic personality disorder when he was eleven, but his mum never got him treatment. Started on drugs such as cocaine when he was sixteen. Got caught, and was admitted to Green Oaks rehabilitation center with money from his father, Allenston, but Samuel wasn't, of course, aware of that fact."

"What does that tell us?"

"Not much. Which is why I made an appointment to go there this afternoon. I need to talk to him myself. We're going back to uni afterwards, so you should probably pack," Sherlock did his signature thinking pose with his hands.

"We're leaving right afterwards? What if we need to go back? You're that sure you can solve the thing with just one visit?"

"Yes. And I have several conjectures to go off on, so we're not completely starting on a blank page."

I cocked my head, "If you say so. And you should really get some sleep so you don't look like a zombie tomorrow for your father's funeral service in the morning."

"Zombies are green-skinned, rotting monsters with drool hanging out of their mouths and hungering for brains. I highly doubt that pulling an all-nighters would reduce me to that kind of creature."

I rolled my eyes, "Figure of speech, Sherlock!"

He smirked, "I know, just trying to lighten the mood."

I rolled my eyes again, "Sleep!"

"We are gathered here to mourn the loss of Mr. Siger Holmes..." the priest droned on as Sherlock proceeded to wander through his mind palace, out of the loss of interest. It was an exact replica of Buckingham Palace, as he had always loved the grandeur of the place.

Instead of speaking or thinking to himself in words, he had preferred using pictures and images. They were considerably more efficient and detailed.

Several flitted across his train of thought now – the rehab center's website homepage, Samuel Lemming's profile photo, and... Molly?

She was standing right next to him wearing a black dress, as per the usual funeral attire, but she seemed to have a peculiar glow that made her stand out from the countless others who were wearing the same color.

Out of the corner of her eye, Molly noticed and met his gaze, blushed slightly, and fidgeted with her hands nervously.

Their plan had been to get coffee after the funeral, as suggested by him, because there was a decent-looking café right down the street.

But they had to endure through this first.

The whole Holmes family stayed relatively calm and emotionless throughout, except for Violet who was nice to all the attendants and graciously accepted everyone's "I'm sorry's".

There were some comments and questions made on who Molly was, but Sherlock deflected all of the with an ambiguous answer.

After a few speeches from people and a poem reading about how great Siger Holmes was (which Sherlock regarded with disdain), the service was over.

The walk to the café took less than three minutes and both of them placed their orders.

"Black, two sugars," he said.

"Same for me, thanks," Molly stated.

They sat down at a table and Sherlock commented, "Mirroring another's action is often an indication of romantic attraction."  
"You're the one who asked me here, don't forget that."

"Fair enough," Sherlock replied as the drinks were readied. "So, Molly, what do ordinary people do on ordinary dates? Can't really say I'm an expert on these kinds of things." He took a sip.

"They talk, get to know each other, and have fun. For example – what's your favourite colour?"

Sherlock frowned, "Getting to know each other by asking about another's preferred colour? That doesn't seem very efficient or practical. There are much better questions, for example, how long do you spend everyday showering?"

Molly giggled nervously, "What? Showering?"

"Yes. I mean, dating is an experiment, really, to find out if a person is compatible enough to live with the other. Therefore, there are more important things that needed to be shared than the favourite pigment of one side."

"Great. Fine. Is it my turn now to ask a question?"

"Is this a game now?"

"It could be."

"I have to warn you, Miss Hooper, I am very skilled at playing games. I've tied in a game of chess with Gary Kasparov three years ago. Although it was a simul, meaning he played several people at once," Sherlock mildly boasted.

"That's all fine and dandy. So it is a game now. And the rules will be if one of us won't answer of a question truthfully, then the other person wins and gets to make the other one do something. Anything they want. Like a warped version of Truth or Dare," Molly grinned.

"Okay, my question is, 'Who have you dated before?'" Sherlock inquired.

"A guy named Justin, but he was just a giant idiot. Come on, you have to do better than that," Molly replied.

"Just testing."

"Alright," Molly wracked her brain for a question personal enough. "Are you a virgin?"

He gave her a look, slightly amused at her choice of inquiry, "Really?"

"What?" She shrugged. "That's personal and embarrassing enough. Are you not going to answer? Meaning I win?"

"What I mean is everyone puts too much emphasis on sex. It's not a dictation of intelligence or self-worth, but everything thinks that is true. But if you insist, my answer would be yes," Sherlock answered. "My turn. What are your thoughts on high-functioning sociopaths?"

"If the one you're referring to is yourself, then the answer would be that he needs to think of better questions if he wants to one-up me on this. My turn. Tell me about your dad. Or rather, why no one in your family seem particularly fond of him, to say the least."

"It's a long story."

"I have time," Molly folded her hands together and leaned forward, attentive.

"My mum, Violet, had gotten pregnant with Mycroft when she was relatively young, and Siger Holmes was the father. It was all just one big mistake, but her mum talked her out of abortion while Siger's parents pressed for marriage," he said solemnly.

"Oh."

"Yes, it wasn't a particularly happy betrothal, but it wasn't too terrible at first. They had me five and a half years later, and by that time, Siger had been in some hot water. He was a 'druggie' – is that what it's called? – and had a handful of affairs, all to my mum's knowledge. She's very smart. The only reason she didn't opt for divorce was because she had no real credentials to get a good job, and while her parents weren't rich, Siger's were."

"So she stayed for his money," Molly concluded.

"More or less," Sherlock shrugged. "Now is it my turn to ask? Tell me your favourite aspect of yourself."

"Myself?" Molly hesitated. "I'd have to say... my intelligence?"

"Good answer. I despise when people say materialistic things like their clothes or makeup or something else just as superficial."

"What's your favourite aspect of yourself?" Molly asked.

"Not very original," Sherlock challenged.

"Never said it had to be," she countered. "And besides, I'm curious."

"New question," he demanded.

"Can't do that," Molly retaliated with. Then something hit her. "You honestly can't think of one thing you like about yourself? What about your deduction skills?"

"Do you know how many people have said 'piss off' to me when I deduce them?" Sherlock almost seemed saddened at the mention of it, vulnerable.

"I can say several things," Molly jumped in. "I mean, you're crazy smart, you have a very snarky attitude, and you've got bouncy hair."

"You like my bouncy hair?" Sherlock reached up and tried to press down the unruly locks.

"It's nice," Molly grinned. "And does this mean I win the game?"

"I suppose..."

"Great! I'll need a while to think about what I'm going to make you do, though..." she looked around for some inspiration.

Sherlock glanced at his watch, "We should leave for the Green Oaks rehab center. I made an appointment to see our suspect in thirty minutes. The cab I called for should be here any second now."

As if right on cue, their transportation vehicle pulled up as they paid for the coffees.

"Green Oaks Rehabilitation Center," Sherlock informed the driver. "We're going to find Samuel's alibi and destroy it."

**Thanks for reading, everyone, and I'm grateful to ****mushsroomsandcucumbers****, ****louvreangel****, ****MorbidbyDefault****, ****musicchica10****, ****Kristina****, ****obsessivefanno.4****, ****SpencerReidFan89****, ****Princess Aziza****, and ****Renaissancebooklover108**** for their reviews! **

**Hope you enjoyed their date, though it was cut a bit short, but you do get to find out a little bit more about Sherlock's past. As for the cause of death for Daddy Holmes, I'll leave that to your own imagination. **


	11. Convictions

**Okay, I just got this feeling yesterday that I should write the rest of the story in third person (insert Moriarty saying, "I'm soooooooooooooooooooo changeable!"), so enjoy.**

Even the walk up to the receptionist's was utterly depressing for Molly. The people sitting down, waiting, had very glum and menacing expressions on.

"Appointment with Mr. Samuel Lemmings," Sherlock said.

"Names?" the secretary glanced up and raised her glasses with a hand.

"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper," he answered.

"Someone will be here shortly to escort you two in," the woman said sharply and went back to reading her novel and tuned everyone else out.

This felt like the kind of place that people automatically want to keep silent in. No one was talking, and no one dared to break the veil of silence. Another lady came into the lobby after a few minutes and called out their names, "Mr. Holmes and Miss Hooper? I am Sam's nurse and I'll be taking you two to his room.

"Thank you," Molly told her and they both stood up.

On the way there, she heard screams from inside several room. Wincing, she glanced up at Sherlock, but he was unaffected and kept his gaze straight ahead.

"Here it is," the woman said and opened door H6.

She turned around to leave, but Sherlock suddenly said in a very calm voice, "When is your baby due?"

She flushed, "Um, in five months."

He stalked into the room without another word, so Molly turned back and covered with a "congratulations".

The man that greeted us in the room was very different from what she expected. He was nineteen, as Sherlock had said, but was very scrawny and hollow, eyes lit with a dead light. There was an air of hostility around him, yet he smiled pleasantly at the two.

"Mr. Lemmings, we would like to ask you a few questions," Sherlock stated, stepping forward.

"You don't look like the police," he narrowed his eyes. "Therefore I am not required to answer your questions."

"Mr. Lemmings, we are trying to help you," Molly lied. "We are law students at Oxford University, very good ones at that. The police are still convinced that you had committed the crime."

Samuel softened a bit at that, but was still cautious.

"Where were you on the night of September 23?" Sherlock began his interrogation.

"Here. In my room. Reading a book. Just ask my nurse, she'll vouch for me," he said, voice rising to an edge.

"Your nurse? She seems very nice. What is her name?"

I narrowed her eyes suspiciously. These questions seemed a tad bit... mundane for Sherlock to ask. A bit useless. What is he playing at?

"Susan. Susan Haus."

"I see... and when did you start cocaine?"

"I– what?" Samuel frowned. "This doesn't have anything to do with the case. And did you read my file? How did you know about the cocaine..."

"Trust me," Sherlock bluffed a kind smile. "This is very important."

"When I was fourteen."

A slight knock sounded at the door and Susan walked in with a plastic little cup on a tray with three different coloured pills. "Sam, time for your meds."

"Thanks," Samuel smiled and took the cup.

Sherlock was staring at Susan's face intently throughout this whole endeavour, and when she noticed, she glanced down and blushed. "What?"

"I'd like to ask you a few questions. I'm done with the interrogation with Mr. Lemmings here," he glanced back at Samuel. "Alone. Outside."

Samuel opened his mouth to protest, but they were already out the door. Molly gave an apologetic smile and walked out after them. Out in the halls, Susan's back was up against the wall and Sherlock was up in her face with an intimidating look, "He's the father of your baby." It wasn't a question.

"How does that– it doesn't..." Susan stuttered and trailed off.

"Ah, so it is true. You didn't even try to deny it. Thank you for confirming my suspicions," Sherlock eased off. "Tell me, when did Samuel start doing drugs– cocaine and the lot?"

"Fourteen. Why are you asking me this?"

He ignored her and continued, "Patient-doctor relationships are prohibited, I assume you know?"

"It's... fine. I knew him when we were young. A long while back. It's fine," Susan protested.

"Five years ago, by any chance?" he inquired.

"How did you know?"

"When he was fourteen," Sherlock smirked. "Why did you let him out the night of September 23 without the knowledge of anyone else? Don't deny it, I know it's true. You met him when he first started doing drugs, through a dealer, maybe? You fell in love and stayed with him, getting a job at this place after he was caught. Am I wrong?"

"You're suppose to be helping him, aren't you?" Susan backtracked.

"You did, didn't you?" Sherlock mused.

"You're suppose to be helping him, aren't you?" she repeated.

"Let me in on a little secret, Miss Haus," he leaned forward and whispered into her ear, "People lie." He then whipped his phone out of his pocket, which had recorded every word in the conversation. "Thank you, really. You've been a big help. Your boyfriend is going to be convicted for first-degree murder. All thanks to you."

Susan did nothing more than gape.

"Congratulations on the baby, too," he noted as he sent the recording to Lestrade in a text. "Although I don't doubt it will be very disappointed in who its parents are."

"Security!" She shrieked in a shrill voice.

"We're on our way out," Molly quickly jumped in and pulled Sherlock away from Susan and swiftly out of the building.

"Sometimes, I really don't understand people," Sherlock muttered. "She gave up her future for this pathetic drug abuser who also happens to have a mental disorder. And their child is going to suffer."

"You know that's what people say about you, right?" Molly commented. "Nobody understand your mindset, either."

"They say that?" he asked, a bit distracted, as he flailed down a cab.

"Oh, don't pretend you don't know what other people say about you. I know you don't particularly care, but you must notice it."

"You're getting better at this. Deducing people," he offered a faint smile and informed the driver of Molly's dorm's address. Before she could answer the question, he answered, "I asked Mycroft for someone to drive our luggage back, so we don't need to go back to Mummy's house."

"If I didn't know you, I'd think you were a mind reader," she said sheepishly.

"Oh? What's to stop you from thinking I am one?

"The fact that you were intuitive enough to pick up all that in there with Susan and Samuel meant you probably expected my logical question," Molly answered. "How did you, by the way? Find out about it, I mean."

"You want to hear me ramble?" he asked.

"I enjoy hearing you ramble," I corrected. "Has anyone ever told you that you have a very sleep-inducing voice? If you weren't running around solving crimes and annoying people, you could have been a great hypnotist."

"A hypnotist," he pondered the idea.

"So how did you know that girl's child is Samuel's?"

"Well first of all, he knew her full name," Sherlock said. "Patients at a place like that don't usually care enough to learn the full names of the nurses."

"He could've just been nice enough to care about her name," she contradicted.

"He killed someone and has narcissistic personality disorder. He doesn't care. I might even feel a bit sorry for that Susan girl, because no matter how much she loves him, he'll never feel the same way back."

"You underestimate human emotions," Sherlock gave Molly an exasperated look after she mentioned that, and she suppressed a grin, feeling a bit accomplished that she had successfully annoyed possibly the most annoying person in the world. "But please go on."

"Her body language suggested attraction. She was fidgeting with her hands quite a lot, and she stood slightly pigeon-toed around him, while her stance was perfectly normal outside in the halls with me. She cared for him enough to agree to his wishes of being let out without knowing. Look how much of a mess she's made."

"What's going to happen to him? After Lestrade arrests him, I mean," Molly said.

"Not much. He's most likely going to blame it on his narcissism, and the court will take it and maybe admit him to a stricter mental asylum? Depends on how his prosecution goes. Leave the rest to Scotland Yard to deal with."

"Wait, wait, let me get this straight," she held up her hand. "You spent all this time and energy catching the perpetrator who probably won't even get the punishment he deserves?"

"Our government is corrupt. But I found him, and that's all that matters," Sherlock shrugged. "The rest– what to do with him– is up to lestrade. And honestly, I do not really care about his punishment."

Molly shook her head, "I really don't understand you sometimes, Sherlock."

The drive back to uni was significantly shorter than the one to the Holmes mansion, but Molly was grateful for that because apparently Lestrade had made an announcement earlier (Allie texted her about it) that all classes are safe to resume.

She groaned at the thought of biology.

"We'll have to face Allenston with the knowledge that we convicted his illegitimate son," Sherlock agreed, picking up on her thoughts.

"Again, the mind-reading," Molly laughed as the cab pulled up near her dorms building. She said the next thing with a hint of shyness, "Oh, I also thought of what I'll have you do, as the winner of the game."

"And that is?" he raised an eyebrow.

"Kiss me goodnight," she expelled the words swiftly before she lost the courage to say them at all.

Sherlock blinked twice quite rapidly, otherwise not betraying any emotion of surprise. There was a stretch of silence as neither side moved a muscle or spoke a word. Then, just as Molly opened her mouth in preparation to say something along the lines of "forget it", he leaned forward and pressed his lips against hers.  
Her eyes widened, but she didn't pull back. There was a small explosion of sensation as she slipped her hands into his hair (oh, god, his gorgeous hair) and leaned forward, pulling him closer.

The cab driver interrupted with a clear of his throat and they broke away.

"Sorry," she murmured and got out of the vehicle.

Acting like nothing provocative had just occurred, Sherlock bid her a "good night" and left.

**I've got two surprises planned for the next chapter. Both a good one and a bad, so stay tuned! Sorry this came a little bit late, I was working on a new story called "Whatever Remains" (Sherlolly and actually has a consistent 3rd person point of view!) so that delayed me a bit. **

**Thanks to ****louvreangel****, ****musicchica10****, ****Renaissancebooklover108****, ****MorbidbyDefault****, ****Black Diamond07****, ****SpencerReidFan89****, ****Kristina (Guest)****, ****VictoriaLucia****, and ****EmilyK**** for reviewing!**


	12. It Will All Be Fine

**A/N: Sorry for the delay on this, guys, I had to start this over three times because it wasn't working very well. So enjoy!**

Lestrade was speaking on the news when Molly returned to her dorms. There was a small telly (courtesy of Allie) in the corner of their room and it was broadcasting BBC with the detective's face speaking confidently with the blonde girl sitting intently in front, digesting every word.

She turned when she noticed Molly walked in and leaped up, "We're on the news! Well, not us, necessarily, but our school! Our uni! The detective inspector is talking about the solved case."

Molly sat down beside her and listened to the reporter on the screen who was interviewing Lestrade with Anderson hanging around in the background.

The woman asked with microphone in hand, "Detective Inspector, I have received reports that you didn't do this on your own, that you have gotten help from from someone outside of Scotland Yard. Can you confirm this? Is this true?"

"Well, yes, sort of," Lestrade admitted, slightly flustered. "But I ASSURE you, it was minimal, we would have done fine without his aid. He just... sped up the process."

"His name?"

"I am not eligible to disclose that informa–"

"Is it, by any chance, a student by the name of Sherlock Holmes?"

Lestrade seemed as shocked as Molly that the woman knew so much, and he attempted to make the situation seem less scandalous than it was– that a uni student, a STUDENT, was more effective than the police force. The woman smirked, knowing she had been right, and moved on to another question.

There had been nobody that could have informed the reporter of Sherlock's involvement except Mycroft, Violet, and Molly herself, but they each had no reason to blab. She decided to call him, and he picked up on the third ring, "Sherlock, you're on the news. They knew you were involved with the case. Who could have told them? I know your mum never would have, and your brother."

His voice was stiff and curt when he replied, "I am currently occupied with a very problematic situation and it would be to your benefit to not call this number any more."

"What are you talking about? Sherlock, is something wrong? You sound a bit odd."

"Everything is fine. I am fine."

"Because if something is the matter, then–" before she could finish, the line went dead. Molly redialed, but there was no answer. With an exasperated groan, she threw the phone onto her bed.

"I presume he was as enigmatic and mysterious as ever?" Allie cocked her head at Molly's reactions to the conversation. "What did he say?"

"Practically nothing worth repeating," she huffed. "Tell me again why I decided to associate with him?"

"Yes, yes, people tend to be very annoying like that, which is partly the reason why knives were invented," Allie chuckled.

"You are so morbid," Molly shook her head with a laugh.

"Not much of a compliment, but I'll take it."

* * *

Molly was jerked awake by Allie in the middle of the night during a very wonderful dream. She tried to wave the other girl off with an incoherent, "Go away."

"A phone call for you. You were too out of it to hear," Allie thrusted Molly's phone into her hand.

"Why were you up so late?" She murmured. It was past midnight.

"I am marathoning a show called Supernatural," Allie explained and sat back down in front of her laptop. There was some type of fight going on in the screen. A man in a trench coat was fighting with a knife in his hand.

"M'Hello?" Molly called into the phone. "Who is this?"

"My name is John Watson, you probably don't know me, but I am in St. Bartholomew's Hospital right now with your friend Sherlock Holmes."

"What?!" She yelped.

"He was shot. In the chest. I was walking back to my dorms from class in uni, and I saw him surrounded by this group of people and one had a gun. I was sure they were threatening him about something, so I called the police. My phone had beeped, and they noticed me. They took a shot and ran off when I said that law enforcement was coming."

"Is– is he okay?" Molly stuttered, feeling slightly dizzy. Allie looked up.

"He's okay now. Lost a lot of blood, but he is fine now," John explained. "You were the first on his contact list, so I decided to inform you. He's asleep right now, a bit drained."

"Fuck," Molly said. "Fuck, fuck, fuck. Who were they? Oh my gosh, that last call, he sounded uncomfortable for some reason, it must've been because of this, I..."

John spoke again, calm and reassuring, "He will be fine, I'm sure, Miss Hooper. No need to be worried. And the police are investigating this right now. They said that they'd like to ask me some questions, so I am going to hang up, if that's okay."

"Wait," Molly interrupted. "You said you go to this uni, too, did you recognize any of those people? They might have been students."

"They seemed too old, and I didn't recognize them. I'm sorry, I have to go, one of the detectives–Anderson?– is shouting at me to hang up, sorry–"

The line went dead as the dial tone resurfaced. Molly's mind was a mess, everything mushy and mixed with every other thought. A thought soup full of mush. There was so much wrong with this situation. Nothing made sense.

Allie seemed to grasp Molly's mood, "It's Sherlock, isn't it? What did he do this time?"

"He went and got himself shot," Molly forced out, mouth dry. "Someone by the name of John Watson who goes here found him surrounded by strangers, and..."

The other girl's mouth fell open, "Oh god. Oh my god. Are you– are you serious?"

"He's okay now, apparently, but he's at St. Bart's Hospital. I have to go talk to him and find out what happened. I'll call his brother, too, Mycroft. And his mum."

"Oh, honey," Allie walked over and gave Molly a small hug. "And please pardon me for saying this, but why do all these horrible things happen to and around him...? He seems to be a magnet for trouble. I'm concerned about your, ahem, association with him."

"I'm fine. I'm fine," she protested.

"No, I'm concerned for your safety if you keep hanging around him," Allie's voice dropped to a slight whisper. "I mean, what if those strangers target you next because of your affiliation with him? Or even me?"

"What you're saying is you're concerned about your own safety?" Molly replied defensively. "Look, I'm sure the Scotland Yard people will be able to find out who they are, if not Sherlock himself. It, will, be, fine." She emphasised the last word.

Allie still seemed a bit dubious, but seemed to accept it and went back to watching Supernatural with her headphones on.

Molly decided to call Mycroft next and scrolled through her call history, bringing up the unfamiliar number from a few days ago. It was immediately picked up and a calm voice greeted, "Miss Hooper– Molly. What can I do for you?"

"Mycroft, did you hear? About Sherlock, that–?"

"Yes, I was promptly informed of the situation by the man Lestrade, and I have updated Mummy of the facts. I presume you have a great desire to see him yet no immediate method of transportation?"

"Yes," she said a bit hesitantly.

"There will be a car sent tomorrow and will arrive promptly at the bottom of your dorms building at 6:20 AM. you should arrive at the hospital at the start of visiting hours if the traffic cooperates. Bring something to entertain him, would you? My brother becomes rather bored."

"You're not going to see him?" Molly questioned.

"I trust you to be able to keep him in track and he take the initiative of finding his assailants himself. And my job does not allow me the privilege of visiting him. Have a nice night," and with that, the man disconnected.

Allie took off her headphones and looked up at Molly, "Are you going to see him? Was that what the phone call was for? And please," she had a rueful look on. "Just be careful, alright? I would prefer not to have to get used to a new roommate if something ever goes amiss with my current one which I am rather fond of."

"Everything is goig to be fine," Molly said. "Trust me. And I am told to bring something for Sherlock that might possibly retain his interest for more than ten seconds, as to the fact that hospitals are rather scarce in entertainment. Do you have any suggestions?"

Allie glanced around and shrugged, "You can borrow my Supernatural DVD's. I'm done up until season six."

**A/N: So, how was it for the surprises? Didn't think the whole thing was going to be over yet, didya? Thank you all for reading and reviewing. **

**I'd also like to note that for the purpose of the story, please ignore the age gap between Sherlock and Jawn, or else they wouldn't be able to have gone to uni at the same time. And I always have a dire need to sneak in references from other things into my writing, so enjoy the Supernatural. :)**


	13. Hospital Blues

Sherlock had a reasonable idea of who the strangers were, excluding the fact that the imbeciles had the good sense to inform him of their identities (Note to self: never threaten someone and then tell them your name).

Molly's phone call had narrowed his theories down to one possibility. Aside from her, Mycroft, and Mummy, there were only two that had knowledge that he was being consulted by Lestrade– Susan and Allenston. The old professor certainly didn't have any relations with these men, he was stuck in too much of his own bubble, so the nurse it had to be.

The older man with the gun stepped up and hissed, "So you're the scrawny, pathetic boy who made my sister lose her job."

Yes, so Susan Haus it was.

"You say that as if it was ALL my fault," Sherlock replied evenly. "And I have a hard time believing that I'm the only one to blame. Most of it should be placed on her and her decision to help her unstable boyfriend."

A second man, whom Sherlock guess was not in relation to Susan or her brother, as he lacked the family resemblance of a thin nose, stepped forward, "You nosy little freak. You should have left it alone! We're just here to teach you that you should have left it alone."

The first cocked the gun slightly. It was a silencer, from what he could see, so the noise would be to a minimum and would not alert others to the situation if it were fired. Sherlock needed time to formulate a plan of escape.

He attempted to stall, "Who are you people? You're clearly more than just overprotective siblings, taking in mind that you have gotten hold of a gun and are threatening to use it, so who are you?" Sherlock tried his best to act... not as intelligent as he usually sounds, or else it would provoke them further.

The man smirked, possessing a dire need to brag as all callow, amateur assailants tend to do, and pulled up his left pant leg to reveal his ankle, ordering the others to do the same.

There was a familiar tattoo, and Sherlock's eyes flickered in recognition.

"Drug dealing network," he breathed. "You're part of them."

"I'm in CHARGE of them. Or rather, my father is, but that is irrelevant," The man waved it off. "But just know that you messed with the wrong group of people."

"But did you know that your sister is not the angel you make her out to be? She is in fact pregnant with the fetus of the convicted criminal, Samuel Lemmings, which was the original reason I was there in the first place. She, herself, is a criminal, and accomplice. Did you know that? Is she truly worth defending?" Sherlock rambled on while noticing a partly silhouetted figure hidden watching the situation play out, and hoped the person had enough sense to call the police.

The man frowned.

"Did she not tell you that? Or was it just the losing-her-job part? Consorting with a criminal doesn't do well for the family reputation," Sherlock continued.

` "I– " The brother opened his mouth to sport a reply, but was distracted when a beep sounded a short way down. Coming from the phone of the hidden figure.

The person's head snapped up, realizing that he was discovered. He shouted hesitantly, "The– the police are coming! They know about this already, so you better run!"

The henchmen of the brother quickly scrambled off at the mention of police, but the one man wavered a bit at the prospect of retreating, gun still cocked. He looked around at the vanishing figures, and looked back at Sherlock, who had a small, smug smile on.

The man ran, and Sherlock chuckled at his seeming desperation. Upon hearing the mocking laugh, the man whipped around, aimed a shot, fired, and scrambled off again with a growl of "We'll be back."

The bullet flew, quiet and swift, and lodged itself right in the middle of Sherlock's left ribs, who was not nearly given enough time to react.

There was a sharp pang that pierced through his abdomen, but it was not terribly unbearable, all thanks to his adrenaline.

"OH FUCKING HELL!" The man with the phone sprinted towards him. "_Are you okay?! Are you alright?!_"

"I'm... fine," Sherlock said through gritted teeth and attempted to examine his wound. "The bullet is lodged between my ninth and tenth rib. It most likely hit the spleen. Okay, that's not horrible. The ICU can take it out in surgery. The spleen is not too important." He was hyperventilating, breaths coming out fast and shallow.

"Just breathe," the young man said. "I can hear the sirens. Just hold on for a bit more."

"I'm okay," Sherlock's vision was unnaturally... neon? No, that wasn't right. He felt lightheaded and almost tipped over, stumbling.

"Look, my name is John Watson, and I'm–" the man said urgently, but the last part was lost to him as Sherlock's vision flooded with black.

* * *

"I do not require food at the current moment," Sherlock quipped at the nurse who had brought him his breakfast on a tray.

"Mr. Holmes," she frowned disapprovingly. "You can't skip breakfast. It's the most important meal of the day. And your body also need it in order to heal itself."

"Please don't talk to me as if I'm a child, because rest assured, I am not," he took the tray, but had no intention of eating it, only wanting her to leave the room and stop nagging. His particular nurse had a very irritable habit of thinking that he wants to converse with people, namely herself.

Sherlock used the fork to absentmindedly nudge the food around and rearranged them by protein content to waste time. He even attempted to have a taste of the eggs Benedict, but recoiled at the blandness.

"I need to get out of this place as soon as possible or I'm going to lose my mind..." he muttered.

* * *

Molly was unsure about what to bring as a get-well present as she wandered through a supermarket near her uni. Didn't most people bring balloons and teddy bears? That would certainly not go too well with someone like Sherlock.

What does he _like_?

That seemed to be the main part of the problem. His main interests were putting down people using complex sentence structures and solving crimes, but other than that, he was mainly minimalistic in his hobbies. Who knew what went on in a brain like his?

She continued strolling through the store when something caught her eyes.

Ah, yes, perfect. Or rather, as close to perfect as one could get with Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

"Hey, Sherlock, how are you feeling?" Molly inquired as she stepped into the hospital room.

"Well, I was shot in the spleen, so I don't think it can get any better than that," he replied impatiently. "The nurses here are absolutely DELIGHTFUL. One of them needed THREE tries to successfully stick the IV needle in the correct vein. So, yes, brilliant. I'm feeling just brilliantly wonderful."

"Is that sarcasm I hear from Sherlock Holmes?" a smile broke out on Molly's face.

"Well, it's certainly not sincererity."

"Okay, so before I get a chance to grill you on what the hell went down last night, I am going to present to you your get-well gift. Two of them, actually."

"Gifts?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, that's what people do when they are ill," she took out a wrapped bundle from her tote bag.

"Well, judging from the weight and dimensions of the package, I must deduce that it's a book," he took the present. "Judging from your reactions, I am correct in my assumptions."

"That deduction wasn't nearly as impressive as the others."

"Well, you didn't give me much to work with," he cracked a half-smile and gingerly ripped open the wrapping paper. "In Cold Blood: A History of The Most Brutal Murders in the World. Look, there are pictures. Of blood and victims. How neat."

"Yes, well, the title made me think of you," Molly bantered. "And the second present is that I am going to make you watch Supernatural."

"Supernatural? What is that?"

Molly shrugged, "A show Allie recommended. Your brother had said to bring something to keep you busy."

"My brother says many things, most of them can be disregarded without a second thought," Sherlock tapped his fingers on the railing of his bed. "Although he is correct in saying that this place is without entertainment and stimulation for my brain, so I suppose I will give the show a try."

She took out the disk for season one of the show, drew out her laptop from her tote, and popped it in.

Sherlock stayed quiet throughout the whole first episode, except for a few snide comments here and there about how the two main characters could have acted more efficiently in this way and that while dealing with the investigation. But he didn't flinch when the flames flared out or when weapons carved into flesh, drawing out blood..

Molly had been sitting on the edge of his hospital bed while her laptop was propped up on Sherlock's lap.

"You're sitting as if I am infected with the plague," Sherlock glanced over at her position. "You don't have to sit so that you're craning your neck to see the screen. You CAN move over slightly. I don't bite."

"I'm not," Molly protested. "I just... don't want to disturb any of the needles."

He rolled his eyes, "Here." He shifted over a few centimeters, leaving more space on his left, and Molly scooched onto the freed space with a slight hesitation. "So, episode two?"

**A/N: Ah, yes, TV show-watching cutesy-ness. :)**

**Thanks for the reviews from ****louvreangel****, ****musicchica10****, ****ChynnaE****, ****Renaissancebooklover108****, and ****Princess Aziza****, it's greatly appreciated. **


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